


The Cancer Inside

by purplehairedwonder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: ohsam, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplehairedwonder/pseuds/purplehairedwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still angry at Sam for his betrayal and starting the Apocalypse, Dean harbors some less than pleasant wishes toward his brother, and a run-in with a djinn gives him exactly what he wants...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cancer Inside

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for authoressnebula's prompt at an OhSam comment fic meme: "Dean tangles with a djinn who grants you what you want most, with a wicked sense of what it probably thinks is humor. Dean's pissed at Sam, angry, just wants Sam to shut up and listen and grovel maybe a little bit more because hey, the guy jumpstarted the apocalypse and betrayed Dean. So yeah, Dean wants that.
> 
> And in this world, Dean gets just that. In this world, he's apparently a very bad man (serial killer, abuser, gangster, anything). The Sam of this world is utterly terrified of Dean, begging on his knees for his big brother not to kill him, he'll do anything Dean wants, just oh god, don't kill him, he still has scars from the last time-
> 
> Now not only does Dean have to get home and kill a djinn before it gets to his Sammy, but he has to try and convince this world's Sam that he's not going to put him six feet under, and stop begging, because it's killing Dean to see Sam afraid of him. And it's killing him in another way, because god, does his Sam see him like this, too? Is his Sam afraid of him, too? (If the answer is yes, I will love you times a billionty.)"

_"We would often be sorry if our wishes were granted."  
\-- Aesop_

 

The first thing Dean became aware of was the jack hammering inside his skull. He might not have a point of reference for _that_ torment exactly, but he did for a drill in his skull and it was pretty damn close, so he figured he’d stick with the analogy. Hell, the gift that just kept on giving—especially now that Lucifer had been popped from his box thanks to a certain demon fucking, blood drinking, betraying little brother Dean would decline to name at the moment.

Not that he was bitter or anything.

Dean groaned and tried opening his eyes but found the world spinning around him. Didn’t that just figure? How the hell had he ended up on a carousel? His stomach turned rebelliously and he screwed his eyes shut, letting the wave of nausea pass.

Once he was feeling steadier, he took a breath and opened his eyes again. Nothing seemed to be moving this time, so apparently not a carousel after all. He blinked when he realized he was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala. Weird. But it meant that he wouldn’t have to call Sam for help, and he’d be thankful for even the smallest things at this point.

After the whole Jesse thing, Sam had been quieter than usual while they looked into what seemed like a fairly straightforward djinn case. Once they’d gotten to town, he’d headed right for the library, only coming back to the motel room when the library closed. They knew pretty much all they needed to about djinns after their last encounter and they’d picked out the likeliest spot for the djinn to be holed up almost immediately, so it was obvious the kid was avoiding him.

And that was just fine with Dean; he was still trying to figure out what to do about his brother. Sam was sorry for what he’d done; the kid hadn’t changed so much while Dean was in Hell that he couldn’t read the guilt and self-loathing practically rolling off his little brother. But that didn’t just erase the fact Sam had chosen a demon over him, nearly killed him while strung out on what had to be the vilest drug on the planet, and then freed the freaking Devil.

Whenever he looked at his brother, he could almost feel Sam’s hands around his throat all over again.

So Dean figured he was justified in not knowing quite what to feel towards Sam.

Or in wanting Sam to suffer more than he already was. The one thing Winchesters didn’t screw with was family, but Sam had never exactly stuck to that rule. He’d run off to Flagstaff for two weeks the first chance he’d gotten as a kid and then had dumped his family for Stanford years later, hoping to make the separation permanent. Dean didn’t know why he was so surprised, really, that Sam had turned on him. But he’d come back the moment he realized how bad he’d fucked up, like family meant something to him. And if that made Dean want to see his brother begging on his knees for forgiveness, well, that seemed perfectly understandable.

Dean figured he really had no reason to feel guilty for going after the djinn on his own. Sam was still a capable hunter, but it was damn near impossible—and dangerous—to hunt with someone you couldn’t trust to have your back. Sam had already stabbed Dean there once, so to speak, and he wasn’t really feeling up to leaving it open again so soon.

While Sam had been off at the library, Dean had written him a note and headed off to take care of the djinn himself. He’d found the warehouse without any trouble, and was almost disappointed at how easy some supernaturals made it to find them. Because, really, an abandoned warehouse just screamed optimal location for evil.

And now that he was out of the motel room that felt like a low pressure system had settled over it whenever Sam was around, Dean was itching to burn off some excess energy. He snuck into the warehouse, secured the perimeter in record time, and found the djinn feeding on a teenager who looked like he’d been there awhile.

That had to have been Joey Marshall, third victim in a string of missing foster kids. He’d been missing two weeks when the Winchesters had rolled into town, though between the pallor of his skin and the grime he covered in, it was hard to tell for sure.

Holding the silver knife he’d dipped in a jar of lamb’s blood sitting in the front seat of the Impala, Dean contemplated his next move. Had Sam been there, they could have hemmed the djinn in from two sides. But Sam wasn’t there, which meant a sneak attack was Dean’s best shot. Djinn were fast sons of bitches; crafty too, so Dean would rather not face the thing head on without any backup.

That was when the electric blue eyes that still haunted his dreams on occasion lit up the shadows in front of him and everything had faded away.

Huh.

The djinn must have gotten to him after all. Frustrated, Dean slammed his hand against the steering wheel. He eyed the knife in the front seat; he just had to stab himself to get back to the real world—assuming the djinn _had_ dosed him—but he didn’t know what the genie was playing at. The last one he’d tangled with had just been after food, but this one was going after specific targets. Sam had said something, in one of his brief moments of speech in the last week, about the strange choice of targets.

Dean had to concede that his brother was right; foster kids would undoubtedly have fantasies they wanted to escape into more intensely than most people, but they were also likely to be less energetic and lively in the first place, which was precisely what djinn fed on. Something else was going on here. And going on a hunt without all the facts drove Dean up the wall. He supposed that meant enlisting Sam’s help, assuming they were actually hunters in this world. Or on speaking terms.

Not that they were on the best terms in the real world either. But still.

Finding his brother meant figuring out where the hell he was first. Dean twisted around to look out each window, peering through the darkness that had fallen and cursed. He’d ended up in a rundown part of town. The police had assumed the kids that had gone missing had left their foster homes for the streets to sell drugs or join a gang; it was fairly common, they said—and this looked like the seediest part of town where kids who weren’t wanted would retreat.And a car like the Impala would attract unwanted attention.

Hell, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t been approached already.

He frowned as he glanced around the street again. There were people peering out curtained windows and around alleyway corners. In the dim street light, Dean thought the drug dealers and gang bangers looked...wary. That set alarm bells ringing in his head, but Dean wasn’t going to complain. If he could get back to the motel without him or his girl getting shot at, he’d throw a _thank you_ on high to whoever might be listening at the moment.

Dean felt eyes on the back of his neck the entire drive out of the neighborhood. What the hell kind of place had the djinn sent him to, anyway?

Over an hour and numerous wrong turns later, Dean pulled up in front of the Cave of Wonders Motel. At first he thought he’d gotten the wrong place, but the motel was at the same address the Red Rock Motel had been in the real world and the basic architecture was the same. Dean rolled his eyes as he got out of the car; clearly the djinn thought it was funny.

After checking to make sure the Impala was still a rolling armory—“Not a civilian this time,” he noted—Dean pulled out the keycard for room 12. He paused briefly as he realized Sam might not actually be in the room; he still didn’t know what the twist was on this world, but figured he’d take his chances.

Some of the tension left his shoulders when the lock on the door blinked green. He swung the door open and froze in the doorway. The room was trashed, like there had been a struggle. Chairs were upturned, sheets tangled on the floor, glass shards trailed out of the bathroom, and blood was streaked on the carpet and walls. Panic surged up in Dean’s gut.

Sam lay asleep on the far bed, on his side facing the door and curled in on himself. Sam only curled up like that when he was hurt or sick, and despite his earlier irritation, Dean was suddenly worried. Sam’s left wrist was handcuffed to the bed frame and Dean did his best not to flash back to the panic room. What the hell was going on?

“Sam,” Dean said, still frozen in the doorway. His brother didn’t stir. “Sam,” he repeatedly more loudly.

Sam’s face scrunched up a moment like he was struggling to regain consciousness, but then his eyes flew open. He jerked upright, the handcuff clanking in protest, and his eyes raked wildly over the room before finding Dean. But instead of the haunted guilt and self-hatred Dean had seen in those hazel eyes over the last few weeks, there was nothing but pure terror. This was the look that had been on Sam’s face when the door to Lucifer’s cage had opened.

Something twisted inside Dean at the thought that his little brother was as afraid of him as the Devil.

“Dean,” Sam rasped and Dean winced. Sam sounded like he’d been yelling. Combined with the cuff and the look of the room, Dean wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know. “I’m sorry, I—”

Dean stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Sam gulped as the door shut and he shrank back into himself, doing his best turtle impression. Dean frowned as he registered what Sam had been saying.

“Sorry for what?” Sam swallowed and Dean stepped further into the room. “Sam, what is it?”

“I’m sorry, I tried to stay awake,” Sam blurted out, sounding more like six year old Sammy than twenty-six year old Sam. “I know you always want to be ready to make a quick getaway after a job, but…”

“But what?” Dean asked, having no idea what else to say.

“I passed out,” Sam muttered, his eyes sinking to the floor like he was ashamed.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Sam had been hurt badly enough to pass out? And he’d _left_ him? “What?”

“M’sorry,” Sam practically whimpered. It was a sound Dean had never heard his brother make and would be happy to never hear it again. “Please, don’t hurt me again, Dean. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Just please…”

“Wait, _I_ did this?” Dean demanded, waving his arms to indicate the room.

When Sam didn’t say anything, Dean moved in between the beds. Sam sucked in a shaky breath and looked like he wanted to bolt, only the handcuffs kept him in place. That was when Dean got a good look at his brother. Livid bruises were forming across Sam’s jaw and eye. Blood had caked against his temple and there was also blood matted in his hair. Finger-shaped bruises circled his neck, disappearing under his shirt. Sam held his free hand around his middle like he’d cracked some ribs. His shirt and jeans were ripped and smeared with blood and his left wrist was raw from chafing against the cuff.

He looked like he’d gone several rounds with a poltergeist and lost.

“Sam, did I do this?” Dean repeated quietly.

Sam refused to meet his eyes. “It was my fault. I can’t do anything right, I know. The cop tailed me from the diner and I was too careless to notice. If I’d seen him, you wouldn’t have had to kill him and bring attention to yourself.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. _Kill him_? he mouthed in horror at the words coming out of Sam’s mouth so casually. But his little brother wasn’t looking at him and kept talking.

“I’m worthless,” he whispered. “The cop followed me and then I didn’t even get your dinner right. God, I’m such an idiot, I’m sorry. Please, Dean, I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me again. I can make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me?” Dean echoed, feeling like a complete idiot. His brain was still trying to process what was going on.

Sam looked up through his shaggy bangs with bright eyes. “I’ll do anything. Please, just give me another chance.”

“Sam—”

“I know, you’ve given me so many chances and I keep messing up. I don’t deserve it, but I’m trying. God, I’m trying.” Sam winced and bit his lip, as if he was suddenly afraid he’d said too much.

Dean flinched, feeling like he’d been punched. That was basically what _his_ Sam had been trying to tell him, trying to prove to him, since they’d gotten back on the road together—just without the overt terror.

Then again, Sam tended to internalize everything. If he were afraid, he wouldn’t show it; he’d suck it up and keep it to himself rather than let it get in the way of a hunt. Dean suddenly felt like a total dick.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I…need to think.”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Sam hastily apologized. “Wh-what do you want me to do?” he asked. “When you left, I didn’t know—” He trailed off at the startled look on Dean’s face.

Dean was still trying to reconcile this Sam with his brother. What was going on in this world? He shook his head.

“Take a shower, Sam. Get cleaned up.” He was having a hard time looking at the bloodied facsimile of his brother—especially when he, or this world’s version of him, had been the cause of it.

Sam nodded silently and made to stand, but the cuff pulled him back down and he blinked at it for a long moment before looking back at Dean. “Key?” he asked meekly.

Oh, right. Dean cast around the trashed room blankly. _If I were a key where would I hide?_ He patted his jacket and shirt pockets. When he patted his jeans, he felt a key-shaped lump in the front pocket. He pulled it out and glowered at it like it was causing him all these issues, not the damn djinn. He reached over and tried to ignore Sam tensing when he was within reach. He unlocked the cuff and Sam rose unsteadily to his feet.

He didn’t look back as he picked his way gingerly through the wreckage of their room to the bathroom and shut the door. The shower turned on moments later and Dean felt his shoulders droop. He couldn’t handle this much longer, seeing his brother so afraid of him. What could he have possibly done to scare Sam like this?

Dean snatched the laptop off the table and pulled up a web browser. He did a search for his own name and found a large number of news hits. That was odd. He clicked on the first story: _Dean Winchester death toll rises, serial killer evades police_. He read through, his eyes going wider the further he read. He tried another news story and another, but they all seemed to say the same thing. Dean eventually pieced together what had happened in this world and he didn’t like it:

In this world, their mother had still died in the fire in 1983 and he and Sam had been raised by John, falling completely off the grid, though John was suspected for a number of criminal acts the police couldn’t officially tie him to. Then Sam got his Stanford scholarship and seemed to escape his family’s grip until Jess’ death.Dean was apparently a person of interest in the fire—it had been ruled a homicide rather than an accident.

Sam had disappeared right after, though he and Dean had resurfaced in St. Louis where Dean murdered a number of women, including Sam’s college friend Rebecca Warren. After that, Dean popped up in various cities around the country, killed a few people or caused some other type of mayhem—holding up a bank in Milwaukee—and moved on. Lori Sorenson, Sarah Blake, and Madison Andrews were also among the listed victims.

Dean was number one on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Sam was a person of interest, but there was nothing linking him to any of his brother’s crimes except his connection to Dean. A number of insiders seemed to think Dean was the dominant personality in the partnership and forced Sam to follow him across the country, killing anyone his little brother cared about if he rebelled. Considering the names of the dead on this Dean’s head, that was probably true.

Dean felt sick. Weren’t djinn illusions supposed to be wish-fulfilling? How the hell was any of _this_ Dean’s wishes coming true?  


He shook his head as Sam walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He was moving carefully around the glass and his various wounds. Dean’s breath hitched when he saw all the scars up and down Sam’s body.

Dean knew his brother’s hunting scars like the back of his own hand, having sewn up most of them or at least been present when he’d gotten injured. Sam had accumulated a few scars while in school—from club soccer or general absentmindedness, the way Sam got when he laser-focused on a project—but Dean had gotten to know those just as well as the others.

This Sam had scars Dean had never seen and they looked more abusive than hunting-related, though there were a few of the latter as well. When Sam turned around to root through his bag for clothes, Dean’s eyes widened. This Sam didn’t have an ugly mass of scar tissue in the middle of his back.

This Sam hadn’t died.

Not physically anyway. Everything that made Sam _Sam_ was missing from the guy throwing on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt—the quiet confidence, the soulful eyes, the slow-burning sarcasm, even the trademark bitchface were all absent, and Dean felt the loss acutely. He’d been so pissed off that he’d forgotten just how much he’d come to rely on Sam’s constant presence, during both the ups and downs.

Dean shut the laptop with a little more force than necessary and Sam jumped. He swallowed and turned to watch Dean warily. Dean couldn’t stand that deer-in-the-headlights look anymore. He needed to get out of here and back to his real little brother.

“Sam, I need to get back to the warehouse.”

His brother nodded and moved toward the bed. “I’ll just, you know, wait for you then. I won’t fall asleep this time. I promise, Dean.”

But Dean shook his head. “No, you’re coming with me.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You, me, warehouse. Let’s get moving.”

For a long moment, Sam stared at him uncertainly before he looked away and nodded. He grabbed his sneakers and laced them up and pulled a jacket over his t-shirt. He trailed Dean out of the room like he was going to his execution.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly what he thought. Because Dean needed more guilt fuel at this point.

From the moment Sam dropped into the passenger seat, he was rigid with tension. And when they hit the freeway, he gripped the door like he thought Dean might shove him out any moment. Dean had driven about ten minutes like that when he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Sam.”

“Yes?” Sam practically squeaked, letting go of the door but refusing to look at Dean.

Dean clenched his jaw. “Quit acting like I’m gonna pull a _Throw Sammy From the Train_ here. I need some backup, that’s all.”

Sam swallowed. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being a head case. You’re right, as always. Just, you just haven’t taken me with you on a hunt since Mad—” He made a quiet choking noise before collecting himself. “Since Madison.”

Dean really didn’t want to know how _that_ had gone down in this world, considering his apparent serial killer tendencies. _His_ Sam was still hurting over Madison’s death, blaming himself for not saving her, more than two years later so Dean decided not to push it.

“Well maybe I changed my mind about wanting you at my six,” he said.

“Okay,” Sam replied in a tiny voice that clearly meant he wanted to ask more but decided he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut.

When Sam fell back into silence, Dean shook his head to himself. He needed to figure out what the hell the djinn was up to and get the hell back to reality. This world sucked out loud. He turned up the tape deck and blasted some Zeppelin until they pulled up in front of the warehouse.

  
Dean grabbed his knife and shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans. Just because the world wasn’t real didn’t mean he shouldn’t go into a hunt unprepared. Dean nodded his approval when Sam grabbed his Taurus from the trunk and looked unsure. Dean took the lead as they headed for the front doors. Sam was quiet behind him, as stealthy as if he’d been hunting the last two years after all. Dean mentally shrugged; djinn world rules didn’t always make sense.

He and Sam went different ways when the hallway split into the wide room Dean had been staking out before getting whammied. The boy he assumed was Joey Marshall was still suspended by his wrists and hooked up to an IV in the middle of the room. And the djinn was watching the boy like a butcher eyeing a slab of meat. Dean caught Sam’s eye from across the room and nodded toward the kid. Sam rolled his shoulders and nodded back.

Dean crept up behind the djinn, his knife gripped firmly in hand. Sam moved in the shadows to cover him from the front, concealing himself behind a cluster of storage shelves. Dean was about fifteen feet from the djinn when it spoke without turning from the boy.

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped. Dammit. “Well that’s not fair.”

The djinn did turn then, and it smiled. “This _is_ my world.”

Dean glanced in Sam’s direction. “So I noticed.”

The djinn regarded him curiously. “And I think you know how to get out of it.”

“Do you?”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve met my kind.”

“No, it’s not.”

“So why are you wasting your time here? You can’t kill me here.”

Dean smiled coolly. “Just trying to figure out what your game is, buddy. Then I’ll kill you in the real world.”

“My game?” The djinn sounded surprised.“I’m no different from the rest of my kind, hunter.”

“Wish fulfillment,” Dean said flatly.

“Correct,” the djinn replied.

“You’re full of shit. This—”

“This,” the djinn interrupted, “is exactly what you wished for when you walked into that warehouse, Dean Winchester.”

“Fuck, no. I never wanted Sam—”

The djinn cut him off once more. “You wanted Sam to suffer for what he did, siding with a demon and starting the Apocalypse. You wanted to punish him for abandoning his family. You wanted Sam begging forgiveness on his knees for betraying you.” The genie’s voice had turned cold. “You wanted your brother to defer to you on everything. You can’t trust him to make any choices on his own since his last choice freed the Devil. And that’s exactly what you got.”

Dean opened his mouth to tell the thing it was wrong, that it had no idea what it was talking about and should shut the hell up about his brother, but he couldn’t find the words.

Because it was right.

Fake Sam stepped out of the shadows, his gun hanging limply at his side, and stopped a few yards behind the djinn. “Am I not good enough for you, Dean?” he asked, his once broken tone now matching the real Sam’s exactly. His eyes shone in that hurt way Dean knew so well. Fuck.

“I know everything is my fault and that you’re always right,” he continued. “I can’t be trusted and you have to smack me around because I deserve it. I’m tainted, an addict, and a traitor, and I’m lucky you haven’t put a bullet in my brain yet.”

“Sammy, please,” Dean whispered, horrified. Because this? This sounded exactly like his brother and the words cut into him like Alastair’s razor.

“You got what you wanted,” the djinn repeated.

“And what do _you_ want?” Dean demanded shakily, pulling his eyes from Sam. “You’re not exactly hiding yourself or your lair from me,” he continued, his voice gaining strength. Because anger could drown out the guilt; anger he could use.

The djinn’s smile was frigid. “What makes you think you were my target, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes widened as everything clicked into place. “Sam.”

“Better hurry,” the djinn said.

But Dean was already plunging the knife into his stomach…

His eyes flew open and he instinctively grasped at his middle, but there was no pain or blood. He shook his head and looked around. He was lying on the cool floor in the middle of the warehouse, his knife three feet away. The djinn was nowhere to be seen, but Joey Marshall was still there. Dean pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, grabbed his knife, and went over to the kid. He sighed in relief when he found a faint pulse.

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out the IV and cut the ropes binding him. He laid the kid on the ground. “Sorry kid, but I’m kind of in a rush here,” he said, pulling out his phone. An anonymous tip should get an ambulance here quickly enough.

Dean sped from the warehouse back to the motel, making the half hour drive in fifteen. He had no idea how much of a jump the djinn had on him or why it was after Sam, but he didn’t intend to give it the chance to hurt his little brother. Sam had enough enemies and didn’t need Dean at the top of the list.

He fishtailed into the Red Rock Motel parking lot, slamming to a halt in front of room 12. He grabbed the knife, gave it an extra dip in the lamb’s blood for good measure, and was kicking in the door before his brain had registered that he’d moved from the car. He froze in the doorway—again—when he saw the upturned furniture and exploded bedding. His heart leapt into his throat.

Sam was on the floor on his back, the djinn straddling his waist with its hands around his throat. He was shoving weakly at the genie’s face, unable to dislodge the thing. The djinn’s back was to the door, but Sam’s eyes widened when Dean kicked the door in.

“I’m impressed, Dean. You made it after all,” the djinn said.

But Dean’s eyes were only for his brother. Sam’s expression shifted from surprised to defiant to scared to resigned, and Dean’s insides clenched at the confirmation of his worst fear.

This Sam was just as afraid of him as the other Sam, just keeping it inside.

Sam went limp beneath the djinn, his meek fight drained from him.

The djinn laughed, releasing its hold on the unconscious hunter. “Lucifer’s going to reward me well for this.”

“Lucifer?” Dean hissed the name like a curse. “That’s what this is about?”

The djinn twisted to look at Dean and raised an eyebrow. “Humans aren’t the only creatures affected by the Apocalypse, Winchester. Lucifer has promised protection for any creatures who side with him.”

“Of course he has,” Dean muttered before hurling the knife in one motion. The blade imbedded itself in the djinn’s chest. The genie’s eyes widened and blood spurted from his mouth before he toppled off Sam.

Dean shut the door behind him and winced when the broken bolt didn’t click shut. The manager wasn’t going to like that…or the blood and dead body in the room.

With a shrug, he kicked the djinn completely off his brother. He knelt down next to Sam and checked his pulse, thankfully finding a weak but constant beat. The djinn had wanted to take him alive, after all. Dean leaned back against the edge of Sam’s bed, eyes never leaving his brother’s lax face.

“Shit, Sammy. What have I done?”

\----- 

The first thing Sam felt was pain in his throat. And his chest. And his back. And his head. Okay, just about everywhere, but especially his throat. The next thing was the soft mattress beneath him; he was on a bed. But the last thing he remembered was…He opened his eyes and immediately tried to sit up, only to have his muscles scream their sharp objections. He moaned and something pushed him back down. He tried to fight it until he recognized the buzzing in his ears as a voice.

“Hey, easy there,” Dean was saying.

“Dean?” Sam croaked, grimacing at the sound of his own voice.

“Right here,” his brother said.

Sam let Dean ease him back down on the bed and coughed. He found a glass in his face and he gratefully took a long gulp of water. The cold wetness was heaven going down his shredded throat. When he’d had enough, the cup disappeared. Sam stared at the ceiling for awhile, considering the last moments he remembered before blacking out. The djinn had been choking him, threatening to take him to Lucifer, when Dean had burst into the room. There had been murder on his face and, for a moment, Sam had been sure he’d been the one the look was aimed at.

He would have rather faced Lucifer than a furious Dean.

Dean had gone off to hunt the damn thing on his own, saying in his note that he didn’t need backup on such an easy hunt; that translated to Dean saying he didn’t trust Sam as his backup and was going to deal with this on his own. He didn’t need a backstabbing addict looking out for him.

But the djinn had found Sam anyway, and he hadn’t been able to take care of one stupid genie on his own. He did nothing but screw up. Of course Dean would be pissed that Sam had been involved in the hunt after all the trouble he went to to keep him out of it. Sam had no defense for that and decided he’d rather get Dean’s anger out in the air than let it fester. Dean had clearly had to look after Sam once he’d passed out—once more having to fix things that Sam couldn’t take care of. With a resigned sigh, Sam finally looked at his brother

Dean was sitting in a chair next to his bed.He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he’d broken the door down. He also didn’t look like he’d shaved in a few days. Sam frowned, trying to make sense of that—how long had he been out?—when he noticed that the wall behind Dean was white. The Red Rock Motel had red brick walls.

“Where are we?” Sam asked, figuring that was a safe topic.

“Motel three towns over,” Dean replied, settling back in his chair. “How’re you feeling?”

Sam frowned but Dean looked like he wanted an honest answer. “Like shit,” he said.

Dean snorted. “I’m sure. You took a pretty rough beating.” He smiled slightly. “But you sure as hell look better than the djinn.”

“You get it?”

“Yep.”

Sam nodded and they fell into an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Sam spoke. “Dean, I’m so—”

“Sam,” Dean growled, “if the rest of that sentence is ‘I’m sorry,’ just can it.” Sam shut his mouth and Dean nodded. “This isn’t your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But…” Sam tried to protest, but Dean shook his head.

“I was the idiot that went after the djinn alone. Dad always said to take backup into even the simplest hunt.”

“Dad also said to have backup you can trust,” Sam countered. And Sam knew he was at the bottom of that list after everything he’d done.

Something unreadable crossed Dean’s face and Sam slumped further into the pillow. “I trust you, Sam.”

Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Dammit, Sam!” Sam started and Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Dean replied. “God, Sammy, you’re my little brother.”

“And I betrayed you,” Sam supplied, doing his best not to flinch at the memories. “I started the Apocalypse. I know.” Boy did he know.

But Dean was shaking his head adamantly. “You made some bad choices, yeah. But this isn’t all your fault. And I can’t stand seeing that look on your face.”

Sam blinked. “What look?”

“That freaked out look!” Dean exploded, jumping to his feet. The chair clattered to the floor behind him. “Jesus, Sam. You’re afraid of me. My own little brother is afraid of me. And I’m supposed to be looking out for you.”

“I—”

“I saw it when I came into the room when the djinn had you. You were more afraid of me with a knife in my hand that the freaking monster that had its hands around your throat!” Dean was pacing up and down the side of Sam’s bed as he yelled. He suddenly stopped and sank onto the mattress at Sam’s hip. Sam tried not to flinch away at the proximity.

“I can’t stand the thought of you being afraid of me,” he whispered. He looked at Sam, eyes wide, red-rimmed, and pleading. “I just can’t.”

“No, I get it. I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t,” Dean said. “You’re my little brother. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re still _mine_.” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes going far away. “I’ve been pissed, yeah.”

“Hurt,” Sam added for him when he seemed loath to continue. “Betrayed.”

“Yeah.” Dean shook himself and looked back to Sam. “But I would never hunt you, Sammy. Never.”

Sam’s mind went blank, like he’d overloaded on information.

_“If I didn’t know you, I’d want to hunt you.”_

Sam didn’t know how to react to this. It just seemed too good to be true. Could Dean really mean it? Could he dare to hope that Dean really meant it? The last time something seemed right like this, he’d gotten addicted to demon blood and opened Lucifer’s cage. He didn’t deserve what Dean was offering.

“Why?” Sam whispered.

Dean gave him a sad smile. “Because you’re my brother, moron.”

And Sam knew without a doubt that Dean meant it. “Yeah, okay.”


End file.
